


set in stone

by bluehasnoclues



Series: harry potter oneshots [10]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Hermione Granger Needs a Hug, Hogwarts Second Year, Hurt/Comfort, I love him too don't worry, Light Angst, bit of remus bashing but not like, in a bad way, just in a he's kind of ignorant sometimes way
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-13
Updated: 2019-01-13
Packaged: 2019-10-08 23:49:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,587
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17396063
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluehasnoclues/pseuds/bluehasnoclues
Summary: Hermione was the first and only one Petrified. Unfortunately, no one thought about what that entailed.(Petrification feels like death because it is.)





	set in stone

Once upon a time, there lived a girl named Hermione. She loved to learn new things and always made the most of every experience. When she was told she was a witch, a real-life witch with real-life magic, she couldn’t help but be excited. She went to a special school just for magic -- Hogwarts, it was called.

Her first year, she tried to learn everything she could. She answered every question and wrote extra on all of her essays. She made new friends -- yeah, okay, sometimes they only really talked to her to borrow her homework, but that was fine, because what are friends for? -- and always did her very, very best.

Once upon a time, there lived a girl named Hermione. She lived until her second year, until there was an evil beast set loose in the school. She was smart, and she had found the beast, but she was just a bit too late.

Once upon a time, there died a girl named Hermione.

And this is where our story begins.

)(

There’s a moment, sometimes, when a person is almost positive that someone is behind them. If they were to turn around, they would see that their mind is playing tricks, that no one is _really_ there, that it’s only their overactive imagination.

But they run up the stairs anyway. Or down the hall, or into a room with locked doors, prompted by that strange certainty sometimes fades after a minute and sometimes stays for hours afterward.

Hermione _knew_ that someone (or something) was behind her. She even knew what it was. With a shaking hand, she lifted the compact mirror, looking just ‘round the corner…

A bright yellow eye looked back.

Hermione fell.

)(

In a dream, the passing of time is distorted. A second in reality can last hours, days, years. Any concept of a linear timeline holds no relevance. Forever can flash by in a second, and a single moment can seem everlasting.

At least in dreams, Hermione mused within her own mind, a person forgets the majority of what passes. Instead, she had the luck to be surrounded in darkness, for less than a second and longer than a millennium, held hostage in her body, a prisoner of her mind.

Petrification wasn’t quite like a coma. Hermione didn’t know for sure, of course, but she’d heard that people in comas could sometimes hear what was going on outside them; they could feel their bodies even though they couldn’t move. She’d had a lot of time to think (or perhaps she’d had no time at all; it was a bit unclear, nowadays) and she was almost positive she had figured out why.

In a coma, a mind is trapped within an unresponsive body. While Petrified, a soul is unable to leave a dead body. Her heart had literally stopped. The flow of blood had come to a screeching halt. She wasn’t breathing, her cells weren’t replicating. She was frozen in time.

For all intents and purposes, Hermione was dead.

Hermione didn’t know if her brain was still firing neurons and that was why she could think. Perhaps her mind was simply part of her soul, and since, _magically_ speaking, she wasn’t _technically_ dead… she was suspended in a torturous in-between.

Limbo. Or maybe hell. Hermione had yet to decide.

She could not do magic. She had no way to tell time. She could not change her surroundings, despite concentrating for all she was worth.

Hermione was left a powerless entity in an empty universe.

She hoped that they had found the basilisk before anyone else was Petrified. Hermione was no martyr, but still, she hoped she was the first and only. No one deserved the nothingness.

(That’s what she called it -- the nothingness, because it reminded her vaguely of the Nothing in The Neverending Story. If only she could see the stars as her world was destroyed.)

Hermione spend the large majority of her time playing with riddles and rhymes; she created small, lilting tunes that she knew she would forget a minute later, or whatever counted as a minute in this godforsaken place. She painstakingly went over every interaction in the past year, and all the years before. She focused most on the memories of her parents’ smiles.

They really were nice smiles.

Inwardly, (because it wasn’t as if she could do much outwardly), Hermione decided that if she ever woke up, she would tell her parents that their beautiful smiles had nothing to do with their profession, and everything to do with them.

Then, after (however long), the nothingness was gone as quickly as it came.

)(

Hermione could feel her heart beating in her chest. She’d never been quite so happy.

“‘Mione!” shouted a familiar voice -- Ron -- and Hermione wanted to curl in on herself, the noise being both _oh so loud_ and _perfect_.

“Is everyone okay,” she tried to ask, but the words came out circular and strangled. “‘ay e’y’ne?”

“What?” Ron asked. “How do you feel? Harry’s gone to get Pomfrey, and he killed the basilisk, and you’ll never guess who was in the Diary, ‘Mione, or you probably already have, it was _You-Know-Who_ \--”

“Mr. Weasley, Ms. Granger.” Madam Pomfrey strode in with a whirl of her black robes and too-stern a voice. “Let me see to her -- Ms. Granger, how are you feeling?”

“I’m fine, I just need to know if everyone is okay,” Hermione tried to say. It didn’t work. She’d probably been in her mind longer than she’d thought, if sentences were this difficult. “Y’ne kn’ f’ne ‘ay,” she said. Thankfully, Pomfrey managed to read her expression rather than listen to her words.

“You were the only one Petrified,” assured the Mediwitch. “It took a month to harvest the mandrake roots and brew the potion necessary --”

“Thirty-three days, Hermione,” Harry said softly. “Do you remember us talking to you?”

Slowly, she shook her head. Movement, she could remember movement. Now she had to remember words, and meanings, and structure, and _order_ , and why did the English language have to be so complicated?

But she was awake, and she would never complain.

“Term ends the day after tomorrow,” Ron said. “Don’t worry, though, all the professors are going to pass you, you’re doing so well in their classes --”

A distant part of Hermione felt relieved, while the much larger part of her was still focused on breathing in real-life air. She wasn’t religious, but this was a blessing, to be here, to be alive.

Ron kept talking, and she kept breathing.

It was lovely.

)(

Hermione’s parents were partly concerned and mostly amused. She’d had quite a lot of time to think -- thirty-three days, apparently, though it always seemed like more -- and now she always said _Thank you_ and _I love you_ and _Be safe._ Hermione didn’t care when they laughed softly and shook their heads. She was determined to acknowledge every moment as the blessing it was; and besides, they always said _I love you_ back.

Her summer was spent in the sun. Hermione discovered that she was terrible at singing, and even more so at creating her own songs. For all she loved poetry, she couldn’t write without laughing at her work, because her words always sounded foolish and naive, and she loved every minute of her efforts.

Hermione discovered, over that summer, that she was truly terrible at a lot of things. Most things, actually. But she didn’t mind all that much, because she was alive.

She was alive, and laying in the sun, laughing with her parents and stringing together daisies -- she felt like she was truly _living._

Hermione felt sort of guilty for not telling her parents what had happened, but it would be difficult to explain, anyway, and she loved their smiles too much to make them disappear.

)(

It was her third year at Hogwarts, and now one of her best friends was being targeted by a mass murderer.

Honestly. Harry couldn’t catch a break.

She plopped down beside him in his compartment, looking curiously at the ragged man slumped across from them. Her hair settled wildly around her; Hermione gave a half-roll of her eyes and deftly braided it back, taking a moment to appreciate how it moved softly against her fingers.

“How was your summer?” Hermione murmured. She didn’t want to wake the man; besides, Harry looked rather worn.

“Same as it always is,” muttered Harry, frowning slightly. “You?”

“Well, I took up singing, and promptly discovered that I sound like a banshee,” Hermione grinned. “My mum said I’d be perfect in the background of a horror film.”

Harry snorted.

“Do you happen to know where Ron is?” She asked. Harry only shrugged; he really _did_ look tired, and skinnier than he was when she last saw him.

“Are you hungry?” Hermione asked casually. “I have half a peanut-butter-and-jam sandwich that I couldn’t finish, and I don’t like throwing away food.” Harry nodded, and Hermione smiled, handing over the food (that she made specially for him, but she wasn’t about to admit that).

Harry was a few hungry-but-restrained bites in when a chill swept over the cabin.

“What --” Hermione murmured, shivering. “Can you feel that?”

The train stopped.

“We can’t be there yet,” Harry said. His brows furrowed. “It’s cold.”

And then, like the past few months were nothing, Hermione was falling --

_\-- it’s so dark -- no one’s here, it’s all in my head --_

_\-- did nothing change? am I still in the infirmary? --_

_\-- it’s so lonely -- if only I had someone to talk to, anyone --_

_\-- la dee da, I can’t feel my arms or legs, da dee la, what rhymes with arms? --_

_\-- mm, I wonder if I died if I could feel it then --_

_\-- why did I bring the mirror? is this really better? --_

_\-- being immortal would be awfully miserable. I really do hope I’m not here forever --_

_\-- what is forever, really, if time doesn’t exist --_

_\-- do re mi, I’d really like some tea, fa so la, I’d really like to breathe --_

\-- a flash of silver darted through the room, out into the corridor, and the light in the room grew brighter. Hermione sat up; she had curled up into a ball on the bench, and Harry had fallen onto the floor.

“What --” Harry started. “Who screamed?”

Hermione frowned. She hadn’t heard anyone screaming, but then again, she had been a tad preoccupied; she felt distanced from her emotions in a way that she hadn’t felt all summer.

A piece of chocolate was shoved into her hands. The scraggly man, she noted absentmindedly.

“That was a Dementor,” the man murmured. “Though what it was doing here, I’m not sure.”

“Dementor,” Hermione repeated quietly. It looked like she had more research to do.

)(

“Harry,” Hermione began at breakfast the next day.

“What do you want?” Ron snapped. “If this is about our summer homework --”

Hermione smiled apologetically. “No, actually, it’s --”

“-- because not all of us had it done the day it was assigned, ‘Mione --”

“Let her talk, Ron,” Harry said tiredly. The bags under his eyes looked bigger, and Hermione felt a wave of concern wash over her. But he wouldn’t appreciate that, she reminded herself.

“So you know the Dementors on the train --”

“-- if this is about him fainting --”

“ _Ron_ ,” Harry said sharply. “Please.”

“There’s a Charm to defend against them,” Hermione continued softly. “And -- and I was wondering if you’d like to find a way to learn it with me.”

Harry looked at her curiously.

“You’re much better at practical, well, everything really,” Hermione admitted sheepishly. She wasn’t ashamed anymore, but it was still kind of embarrassing, her lack of talent at practically anything beyond books. “And -- if they’re going to be around this year, on the lookout for Black -- well, I had a negative reaction too, so if you’re interested, and happen to have any open time…” She let herself trail off.

Ron looked pacified, and Harry gave her a cautious smile. “Yeah, that’d be great. Thanks.”

)(

“I know myself, Professor, and I’ll most likely work myself into the ground with my schedule. I know I already got special permission, and I apologize. But I’m a rather bad enabler, and I think I got ahead of myself.”

Professor McGonagall looked down at Hermione. The bushy-haired, bright-eyed girl stared at her apologetically, wringing her hands behind her back.

“That’s very mature of you, Miss Granger,” Professor McGonagall said. “But are you sure? Your grades last year were truly remarkable. That the Ministry saw fit to allow a third-year --”

“I wouldn’t mind doing the classes through self-study,” Hermione said. “A Time-Turner would be incredibly helpful for that -- but really, trying to go to each in person… I’m truly grateful for this opportunity, really, but… I’m thirteen, and I think it’d be smarter if I… went outside, sometimes.”

Professor McGonagall smiled. “Here, Miss Granger, I have an idea --”

)(

Professor Snape, Hermione could tell, wasn’t quite sure what to do with her.

He seemed at a loss for words when he returned her first essay of the year -- with a small ‘O’ marked in red ink at the top, of course -- that was twelve inches exactly.

Hermione could understand his surprise, considering the assignment was to write twelve inches. It might have been the first time in two years that she hadn’t gone over.

(Hermione would never admit that it took her four rough-drafts to cut down her essay to an acceptable length. Besides, the sour look on Professor Snape’s face more than made up for her extra work.)

After thirty-three days trapped with no one but herself, Hermione had concluded that, realistically, she had very little natural talent. She could read, and remember what she read, and often repeat it word-for-word -- but that was it. There wasn’t any point in pushing herself to like something she just didn’t, like say, Quidditch, but if she was already good at reading… she would find a way to broaden her talents in a way that complemented that.

And if that meant writing an essay four times to make it clear and concise and much more interesting than the book, well. She would write the essay four times.

And she would treasure the look on Professor Snape’s face forever.

)(

Hermione could admit that she was a tad jealous of Harry’s relationship with Headmaster Dumbledore. A spoken word here, a prod there, and they were both called into the Headmaster’s office. She’d never been in the Headmaster’s office before -- not even to get permission to for underage possession of a Time-Turner.

“Ah. Harry. I heard you want to learn the Patronus Charm?”

“It was Hermione’s idea, sir --”

“Miss Granger _is_ quite the exceptional student,” said Dumbledore, and Hermione wasn’t sure if he meant it as a good or a bad thing. “Professor Lupin has agreed to work with you both. Provided, of course, you prove that you can also excel in his class.”

Considering their last two Defense teachers, and the fact that they hadn’t even _had_ Professor Lupin yet, Hermione found that statement more than a bit ominous.

But it would be worth it. It _had_ to be worth it, if it meant that she would never be trapped in her own mind again.

)(

Harry looked terrified at the prospect of facing the Boggart. Hermione couldn’t blame him; she wasn’t sure how her fear would present itself, and she most certainly had a problem with the thought of finding out in front of the class.

Very well, then. Hermione would earn the exasperation and irritation of every student in class once again. At least it was only Gryffindors.

“Sir?” She asked, raising her hand in the air. Confident, she reminded herself, even as her heart thudded in her chest. (She could feel her heart. She was fine. She could breathe. She could feel her heart.)

“Yes? Miss Granger, was it?”

“Yes, sir. I, um --” Act shy, Hermione coached herself silently, so that he can’t shut you down without looking cruel, and defer to his authority as much as possible so he doesn’t feel like you’re undermining him in front of an audience -- “I don’t want to cause a problem, but… are we each going to do this in front of each other? I mean, it’s just, I don’t know what my ‘greatest fear’ is, and, um, finding out in front of everybody --”

“Ah. Yes. Of course,” Professor Lupin said, first looking taken aback, then understanding. “It _is_ tradition to go through the lesson as a class, but -- if you feel like it would be too disturbing, I’m sure I could set something up where we could go through it in private. But if you’re just worried about your Housemates judging you, don’t worry -- experiences like this are what bring you closer together.”

Hermione stilled. “Yes, of course, Professor,” she said after a moment. “I understand.”

Pity, Hermione thought mildly, as she gave him a tight smile and apologized ‘for interrupting,’ she had almost liked this one.

But she kept her mouth shut as the class laughed at Professor Snape in a feathered hat and frilly clothes. She didn’t say anything as a giant snake became a clown, or when Ron summoned a spider of truly epic proportions.

Hermione stayed quiet until she was up next in line, and furiously ignored Professor Lupin as he -- very publicly -- asked if she was ‘alright with doing this in front of everyone else, if you’d really rather stay behind and finish the lesson then’.

Hermione focused on her heartbeat -- _four, five, six_ \-- as she stood in front of the Boggart.

A small hand mirror sat on the floor.

\-- _seven, eight, nine_ \--

Snickers broke out in the back of the class. (“She’s afraid of seeing her own hair. Really, I can’t blame her, it’s that dreadful,” someone said. “Are you sure it’s not the beaver teeth?” Another person replied.)

\-- _ten, eleven, twelve_ \--

“Riddikulus,” Hermione said smoothly, and the mirror morphed into a giant, glowing yellow eye.

Harry inhaled sharply behind her.

\-- _thirteen, fourteen, fifteen_ \--

Hermione let out a short, brittle laugh before moving aside. Harry stepped up; and then the room grew colder, so much colder, and she’d felt this before, Hermione could recognize this feeling and she did _not_ want to go through it again.

She took a step closer to the Boggart-Dementor, because she’d rather face a basilisk than repeat those thirty-three days, but Professor Lupin was faster. The Boggart morphed in front of their eyes, becoming a silver orb that hung in the center of the classroom.

Hermione couldn’t even summon her inexorable curiosity, by the time class was dismissed, about Professor Lupin’s strange Boggart.

 _\-- seventy-two, seventy-three, seventy-four_ \--

)(

Her next Potions class was physically painful. Literally, because someone was snorting st the idea of Professor Snape in ‘old-lady clothes’ instead of paying attention to their boiling-over concoction.

Hermione tried her best to breathe, she really did, but this was getting ridiculous, and she knew that the longer she stewed on her emotions the worse she would feel. She finished her Potion mechanically -- by the end of the week, Hermione promised herself. By the end of the week, she would either do something about the Boggart Incident or she would get over it.

With her new goal in mind, Hermione set off to Divination.

)(

She promptly choked on the overwhelming amount of incense and smoke.

Perhaps it was supposed to give the room an aura of mysticism, or maybe create interest in the subject itself, Hermione thought, but really it was just suffocating. It reminded her a bit of her family’s annual trips to see Uncle Steve (her mum had nicknamed him “Steve the Smoker”, and her dad couldn’t even disagree, because his brother’s house looked -- and smelled -- liked it was filled with all the smog of the Industrial Era combined).

She’d never thought much about fate. Hermione had never seen the point; if her destiny was written in the stars, and every choice was predestined, even her protesting against such a thing would be foretold.

And then Trelawney -- Hermione wouldn’t even grace the woman with the title of ‘Professor’ -- predicted Harry’s death -- as if he didn’t already have enough to deal with -- as apparently she did to at least one student every year.

Hermione felt no compunctions at all for walking out.

(Incensed by the incense, Hermione thought, and had to stifle her giggle.)

Her feet brought her to Professor McGonagall’s office; her Head of House didn’t have any classes this block, Hermione deduced that that was where the woman might be. Bugger waiting until the end of the week. If she was going to embarrass herself, she might as well do it then and get it over with..

“Professor?” Hermione asked, knocking on the frame of the open door.

“Yes, Miss Granger?”

“I had -- honestly, it’s a bit complicated.”

Professor McGonagall set down her quill. “Take a seat. How can I help?”

“Well, you see -- after my and Harry’s -- adverse -- reaction to the Dementors, Headmaster Dumbledore agreed to let a professor teach us the Patronus Charm.”

“He informed me just this morning. Professor Lupin, correct?”

Hermione bit her lip. “Er, yes. Sort of. But I’m not entirely sure it’s valid.”

Professor McGonagall hummed. “I’ve been told I’m a good listener.”

“Well, um… may I speak frankly, Professor?” When she received a nod, Hermione continued. “I don’t want Professor Lupin.”

Her Head of House frowned. “You just had your first lesson, yes? Did something happen?”

“That’s -- that’s what I’m not sure is valid.”

“Mm. Would you prefer to explain over tea?”

Hermione slumped in her seat gratefully. “That would be wonderful, actually.”

As she tried to work out what to say, Hermione noted with amusement that McGonagall put an obscene amount of milk in her tea.

“Professor Lupin?” Professor McGonagall prompted gently.

“Yes, well -- it was only earlier today, really, and I’m sure it’s not a big deal, or at least no one else thought it was, but -- I did. So.”

“What was the lesson?” Professor McGonagall asked when Hermione was quiet for a minute.

“Boggarts,” Hermione sighed. “This is -- okay, please don’t get me wrong, I respect his authority as a teacher, and honestly, he’s the best Defense professor we’ve had, but I don’t feel like he’s made his classroom into a safe environment.”

Her Head of House frowned. “How so?”

“Well, I brought up my concerns in front of the class. I was, er, not exactly… _keen_ on discovering what is literally my _worst fear_ in front of my _entire House_. So I, uh, sort of requested-slash-suggested that we do the lesson in private? Like, each person goes separately? And, I mean, I tried to be polite about it, because it was our first class with a teacher we barely knew -- speaking of, we _barely know him,_ why would we want to show him our worst fears, even if they are just, like, elephants or something --”

Hermione stopped. “Sorry. Off track. So, erm, I spoke up, which, and I’ll only say this to you because I know you won’t laugh, speaking up in front of everyone is kind of terrifying to begin with, and you _know_ I don’t like to contradict teachers, I’m _Hermione Granger, Swot Extraordinaire,_ for Merlin’s sake --”

Professor McGonagall started to frown, so Hermione quickly changed her train of thought. “So, I understand that he didn’t have time to think about how his words or tone could impact the reception of his response, but he basically dismissed what I was saying, which I still think is _completely valid_ , and made it sound as if -- as if he was saying that --” Hermione raised her voice a pitch and made it sickly sweet -- “ _Sure,_ I _suppose_ , if you _really_ want to leave, if you _really_ think you can’t _handle_ it, even though it’s _tradition_ and makes _bonds_ and helps you _understand your friends_ \--”

Hermione cut herself off again. “I’m sorry, that was rude. But does he _not_ know in-House bullying is a thing? And besides, Neville’s Boggart, I get that he needed to face his greatest fear, trust me, I understand, but that’s a _humiliating_ image for Professor Snape. It was, er, Professor Snape all dressed up in his grandmother’s hat and dress. Which completely undermines his authority -- Snape’s, I mean -- and after Professor Lupin’s lesson, participation in Potions completely went to crap and _four cauldrons_ exploded and three people got sent to the infirmary.”

Professor McGonagall looked like she was about to cut in, so Hermione kept talking. “And Harry had a _literal Dementor!_ That is _not_ something a class of _third-years_ should have to see, especially without warning, or proper safety measures, or --” Hermione stopped. She took a deep breath; two. “I’m sorry again. But do you see why I’m opposed to taking private lessons with Professor Lupin?”

“Have you talked to him about any of this?” Professor McGonagall asked gently.

“No,” Hermione said tightly. “Because I don’t feel _safe doing so_.” She had to pause again. “Sorry. Everything’s coming out a bit more heated than it should. It’s all a bit fresh, I suppose.”

“Would you like me to talk to Professor Lupin in your stead?”

“ _No_ \-- I mean, yes, -- I mean, what’s he going to do to _change_ it, nothing, and I don’t want to get the once decent Defense professor in trouble -- I just realized I’ve been calling the other Defense professors terrible, sorry, I don’t mean that offensively -- nevermind, yes, I do, because they _were_ terrible -- _anyway,_ is there any other teacher we can learn the Patronus Charm from? Or even a _book_ you can guide me too?”

“I believe the only other staff member that can consistently cast a corporeal Patronus is Professor Snape,” answered McGonagall gently.

Hermione’s shoulders slumped. “Oh.”

“Have you perhaps spoken to Mr. Potter about any of this?”

“Well, no,” Hermione muttered. “Sorry, it’s just -- I’m sorry for bothering you, thank you for listening, I’m mostly just worked up from Trelawney -- thank you for the tea --”

“Miss Granger,” Professor McGonagall interrupted. “I’ll put together a list of reading material on the subject, and I’ll speak to the Headmaster about proper classroom comportment when it comes to answering a student’s concerns. Thank _you_ for telling me.”

Hermione rose. “I really do appreciate it, Professor.”

Professor McGonagall’s eyes softened. “I did you a disservice your first year by brushing aside your concerns. I will see to it that it never happens again.”

)(

“I don’t blame you, ‘Mione,” Ron muttered, mouth -- unsurprisingly -- full of food. The Great Hall seemed louder than usual, and Hermione, despite knowing that it was imagined, could feel eyes on her from across the room.

“Yeah,” said Harry, which was unexpected, because he seemed to like Professor Lupin. “It wasn’t cool, showing everyone’s fears like that.”

“Was the mirror your --” Ron started, then cut himself off when he noticed several people listening in. “Well, I never want to see an Acromantula again. Once was enough for me, thanks.”

“We can learn the charm from a book,” Harry said, bumping her shoulder with his. “We’ve got you. The brilliant Miss Granger. Top of her class, brightest witch of her age, the only reason that Potter kid is still around to bother Snape --”

“Honestly, ‘Mione, if someone can learn a spell like that on their own, it’d be you,” Ron said.

Hermione smiled.

The warm feeling in her chest was enough to chase away the worst of the nightmares.

)(

Once upon a time, there died a girl named Hermione. 

But that's alright. She'll be okay.

**Author's Note:**

> I was gonna extend this and make it a mentor-sev fic but also I'm lazy so maybe later?


End file.
